


Big Damn Heroes

by bhaer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Discussion of Abortion, F/M, Female Friendship, Gen, Women's Rights, ladies being awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:31:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bhaer/pseuds/bhaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Musichetta holds a monthly party for the old and current mistresses of Les Amis de l'ABC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Big Damn Heroes

Once a month, usually on a Sunday afternoon, Musichetta held a small party. Her flat was only two rooms, and small rooms at that, but the company wasn’t particular and by the end of it they were all usually so drunk that it wouldn’t have mattered if they were in the tower of London.

Marie, the youngest, richest, and arguably the prettiest, always brought pastries. She had never learnt to cook as she’d never needed to and overcompensated by bringing enough sweets to feed an army. Georgette, the oldest, poorest, and arguably the most attractive in figure and character, always baked a cake. Georgette had learnt to cook and, rumor had it, was known in some circles as a talented baker. Perhaps she was, Musichetta tried not to judge her closest friend. Still, the facts remained that once a month Georgette arrived, missing a glove and out of breath, clutching a mass of dough that was always blackened on the outside and gooey on the inside. They all ate it politely and after they had imbibed considerably, joked about it. Georgette laughed along with them.

Jeanne could never be counted on to attend to anything except her novels but when she did attend, it was a treat. Her mother was an excellent cook and would send over enough dinner and dessert to last Musichetta the week. Jeanne’s father, who was a bookseller, let her bring merchandise that sold poorly or had been damaged somehow and the girls eagerly awaited those ink-smudged portfolios with the binding all wonky. What was even better was Jeanne’s own poetry and prose, which was far less romantic than anything her father sold, but was much funnier. Jeanne was small of stature and spoke with a wavering, squeaky voice, but she understood vulgarity better than anyone.

Julie was Jeanne’s best friend and compared to Jeanne, whose intelligence, eccentricity and occasional boughts of ridiculousness were mesmerizing, Julie seemed to fade into the wallpaper. She, it could be said, was pretty in her own way. Certainly Marie admired her clear, ivory skin and Musichetta her thoughtful gray eyes. It wasn’t that the individual parts of Julie were plain, it just that together, coupled with her timidity and reserve, they rendered her a little boring, though Musichetta would have slapped anyone who admitted it.

They were all a little jealous and confused when Julie brought the vaguely apocalyptic, nearly suicidal love poems she had inspired. Somewhere in that naive face, Jean Prouvaire had found a muse.

Catherine was technically between lovers but Musichetta welcomed her with open arms anyway. Catherine, in her infinite capacity for goodness, always brought the wine and gossip. Her romantic entanglement with her coworker was better than anything even Jeanne could dream up and the girls would sit around her as she spun her tales of passion, intrigue, and surreptitious sex in the factory.

They were a merry party.

For Marie and Catherine, it was the highlight of their social calendar: Marie because her social life revolved around petty aristocratic nonsense and Catherine because she had no other social life. Though Musichetta, Jeanne and Julie were less dependent on the company, they did look forward to meeting earnestly and found themselves shrinking off their usual friends.

“I love Laure like a sister, but how can I explain to her what I live with?” Jeanne said pensively one afternoon. The drinking had begun rather early and they were sprawled throughout Musichetta’s bedroom.

“It’s bad enough that my sweetheart makes such unfortunate sartorial choices, but his politics are unfashionable as well.” Julie moaned. Musichetta was fitting her for a gown that Marie had outgrown. It was easily the finest thing Julie had even worn and the effect on her countenance was astonishing. 

“How could you say that when Byron himself went off to fight in a revolution?” Jeanne cried, scandalized. “No, I meant that Laure has no understanding of what I, quite literally, live with. I fear every time my mother enters my room she’ll find the stack of incendiary political pamphlets Denis hides in my mattress.”

“I burnt those a long time ago.” Catherine said cheerfully. “Feuilly knows he can play at overthrowing the state with spoiled law students whenever he wants, but I refuse to participate.”

“Is he still being unbearable?” Musichetta cooed sympathetically. Catherine leaned back against the wall, her red hair falling out of its topknot.

“He now wants to marry me.” She groaned.

Jeanne gasped.

“How odious of him.” Musichetta remarked dryly.

“Can you imagine us bonded for eternity under the law? It’s sickening. I almost smacked him when he offered.” Catherine said.

“Oh Cat, how could you? Did he get down on one knee? You must tell me everything.” Jeanne cried, reaching off the bed to clasp Catherine’s face in her hands.

“I suppose _I_ was on _my_ knees, actually.” Catherine said in mock contemplation. Now Marie gasped.

“Don’t listen to her. Bahorel proposes to me several times a week after I’ve pleasured him. It only counts if your mouth is nowhere near his genitals.” Georgette said.

Jeanne lay back on the bed in dramatic hysteria.

“I am certain Denis will never marry me. In a few years I will be forced, just forced, to tamper with his assurance caps and then he will feel too honorable to do anything but marry me.”

Musichetta threaded her needle with vigor and frowned at the sulking Jeanne.

“If you’re so upset, just ask Denis. He believes in equality of the sexes; he’ll be thrilled that his sex life is so revolutionary. There’s no need to bring a child into this.” Musichetta said, not ungently.

“Oh, I don’t actually want to be married to him, I just want him to ask. His family sounds properly stuffy and awful and I’d be perpetually known as that upstart that ruined their son.” Jeanne said. Marie patted her arm sympathetically.

“You wouldn’t know anything about this. Your de Courfeyrac is quite an eligible match.”  Jeanne muttered to her. Marie pouted.

“We face plenty of difficulties. Mother had a fit when Laurent failed to pass the bar, _again_. He’s becoming less and less eligible everyday.” Marie said.

“Poor darling Marie. You deserve a high-society husband and instead you got the silliest dandy revolutionary in Paris.” Musichetta said.

“You’re full of maternal affection today, ‘Chetta,” Georgette said kindly. “And how many silly dandy revolutionaries do you think there are in Paris?”

“She’s been practicing on me all week,” Julie confided.

“Have you been to the Latin Quarter recently? I suppose there are hundreds of particle-shunning law students with political leanings there alone.” Musichetta said.

“Let me take you to a dance hall next week. You’ll find someone with better sense, though perhaps less money.” Catherine said. Marie frowned.

“There are only two problems with that: Mother would never allow it and I’m deeply in love with Laurent.” Marie said with a little smile.

“Oh dear, that is a problem. Never fall in love with them. It was my undoing. Now I have a thousand rude caricatures of Louis-Phillipe under my pillow.” Jeanne moaned.

“I didn’t think vulgar cartoons were Combeferre’s style.” Mused Musichetta.

“They aren’t. I refused to take them from Bahorel and he passed them on.” Georgette said triumphantly.

“It’s a nightmare how that happens. I’m sworn to secrecy as to the exact number but let me tell you, there are an obscene amount of bullet molds hidden in my cupboards.” Musichetta said. 

“You wouldn’t expect it, but Jehan has rather a lot of guns on his person.” Julie said half-dreamily.

“Speaking of Jehan’s guns, how did my pennyroyal tea work for you, dear? I assume successfully.” Musichetta said, squeezing Julie’s shoulder warmly as Julie blushed. 

“It worked as it should have.” She murmured shyly, retreating into the great plaid dress.

“Oh Julie, you _didn’t_.” Catherine cried. 

“She couldn’t help it. It happens to the best of us.” Georgette said fiercely as Musichetta wrapped her arms around Julie, who was rather her pet.

“Did you tell Prouvaire?” Jeanne asked, clearly looking for a confrontation out of a novel.

“Of course not! He’d be so upset and it would quite complicate his poetry. The poor dear gets flustered so easily.” Julie said, great warmth of affection clearly visible in her watery eyes.

“He could have taken some time off of his silly verses to be with you. He ought to have been upset. It was his child too.” Musichetta growled.

“ _Was,_ being the operative word here. What’s done is done.” Georgette said. 

“Yes, but pennyroyal can be very poisonous and shouldn’t be taken alone. Was anyone with you?” Musichetta probed.

Julie looked straight at Jeanne, who tried to look busy with some piece of embroidery she'd been neglecting all evening.

“Oh Jeanne, I _knew_ you’d come through. For all your fuss, you’re a regular guardian angel.” Marie cried, wrapping her arms around Jeanne, who whimpered and tried to get away. Georgette nodded in appreciation.

“Your silly gigot sleeves are suffocating me.” Jeanne wheezed.

“Keep hugging her, she deserves it. She borrowed one of Combeferre’s medical texts and everything.” Julie said proudly.

“Maybe you should quit your life of bookbinding and writing pornographic limericks and become a doctor.” Catherine said. Jeanne turned bright red.

“I just watched Julie and made sure her pulse was steady and she didn’t hemorrhage.” She muttered.

“I knew there was something underneath the silliness. Combeferre would never love an idiot.” Georgette said, smiling.

“I’ll have you know,” cried Jeanne, wrestling herself free from Marie’s tyrannical gigot sleeves, “That I am every bit every the idiot that I was. I don’t intend to choose between pornographic limericks and rudimentary first aid. I contain multitudes!”

“Here, here!” Catherine cried, clapping.

“I hope I never need your assistance.” Marie whispered.

“It isn’t that bad at all. Just some bleeding and you’re done.” Julie said gently.

“If you catch it early enough. I don’t want any of you waiting to find me because of pride.” Musichetta warned, looking thoroughly intimidating with her hands on her hips.

“There’s no shame in it and there’s no shame in hiding it. All men get all honorable about their mistakes but five years down the line, you’ll be the one with the child that consumes your life and he’ll still be merrily plotting his revolution.” Catherine said airily, though Georgette grabbed her hand thoughtfully.

“Feuilly’s a good man and you love him.” Georgette said. Catherine looked like she might burst into tears before quickly regaining her composure and rolling her eyes.

“Yes, but he’s an idiot too and it’s too much fun quarreling with him to stop.” She said, with only a hint of a tremor in her voice.

“I guess that’s why we’re here,” Musichetta said, unbuttoning the back of Julie’s new dress and pulling it down.

“They’re all idiots but good men.” Julie breathed, stepping out of the gown. 

“And we love them.” Said Jeanne with only a hint of a smile.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. "Assurance caps" are a very early term for condoms. They could be made of out linen, leather or animal intestines. Feel lucky you're living in the 21th century, kiddos.  
> 2\. Pennyroyal is a plant that, if brewed correctly, can cause an abortion. It can be also extremely fatal, as in, an ounce of pennyroyal extract is enough to kill you slowly and painfully. Do not mess around with pennyroyal.  
> 3\. Gigot sleeves are giant fucking sleeves popular in the 1830's. If anyone cares, this (http://www.metmuseum.org/collections/search-the-collections/80003316?rpp=20&pg=8&ao=on&ft=*&deptids=8&when=A.D.+1800-1900&what=Costume&img=2) was the dress I had in mind for Julie.  
> 4\. Title is stolen from Firefly.


End file.
